Page 7 of Sinful Abandon

“You ever been cheated on, Ryan?” I refill my drink.

“No.”

“Of course not. Look at you.” I take a fresh sip.

“If you’re basing this on beauty, then I can’t believe a man would ever be dumb enough to cheat on you.” His eyes assess me. No, they appraise me from the tips of my toes, up to my shapely hips, and dip across my swollen breasts, landing on the doe-eyed expression I’m giving him. From the look on his face, he means what he said.

I swallow down any notion of attraction I might have just gotten from that look. “Who said I was cheated on?”

“With that question, you did,” he says with a smile.

I hate observant people because you have to watch your every word.

“Shit happens,” I say. Then, I raise a finger. “I’m not sleeping with you, so flattery will get you nowhere.”

That damn smile widens his face again. He takes a step toward where I’m standing in the middle of the room. “I don’t want to go to bed with you. I want to know you.”

“Why?”

“I have absolutely no idea, but I’ll tell you this.” His voice is deep and low. “I’ve never met a woman like you. You’re different from the other girls. I’m hoping you’ll tell me enough to quell this aching curiosity inside me.”

“Different good or different bad?”

Instead of answering, Ryan moves closer. Our eyes are level, but his body overpowers mine by the energy he’s exuding. My insides tingle, and it’s the good kind of tingle, the kind that makes me want to unleash my corset and climb the man in front of me like a cheetah in heat.

I inhale a breath and remind myself why I can’t be attracted to any ordinary Tom, Dick, or Harry.

Or Ryan, for that matter.

“You have cards?” he asks.

My brows furrow in confusion.

“Blackjack. I’ll play you. A win for a sin.”

I like this guy. I’ve been in his presence for under an hour, and I can’t get a read on him. It’s fun, being kept on my toes.

Placing my drink down on the coffee table, I grab a deck of cards from a nearby drawer, hand it over and take a seat on the couch. Ryan shuffles the deck, like he’s a professional dealer, and hands out two cards each.

I hit. He stays.

He wins.

“Why a rich man?” he asks.

He waits for my answer.

“I grew up watching my father have unhealthy relationships with women and alcohol. I escaped my personal hell by reading People magazine and watching Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”

“Rich people have problems, too.”

“Not money problems. I had a job at ten and paid our rent because the deadbeat would blow all his money. By the time I was sixteen, I moved out and supported myself. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Where’s your dad now?” His interest in my life is uncharacteristic for the men I usually spend my time with.

“Homeless,” I state matter-of-factly. “Deal.” I wait for him to hand out the cards.

I split a pair and win with twenty to his nineteen.